


the tornado lessons

by brawlite



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alcohol, Begging, Burglary, Daddy Kink, Denial, Drunk Sex, Dry Humping, Dubious Consent, Facials, Gun Kink, Gunplay, Home Invasion, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Omorashi, Oral Sex, Praise Kink, References to Sex Work, Sex for Favors, Threat of Arrest, Watersports, Wetting, anyway this is unrepentant trash, billy picked the wrong house to break into, billy's too pretty not to cry, hop thinks so too, how many kinks can i cram into one fic?, it's okay i think they both will make do with the situation at hand, oh also there's some billy crying because of course there is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brawlite/pseuds/brawlite
Summary: Billy breaks into a small, shitty cabin in the woods. He's not exactly prepared for who catches him in the act, but it's fine: Billy's always been good at getting himself out of trouble.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Jim "Chief" Hopper
Comments: 21
Kudos: 269





	the tornado lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * For [trashcangimmick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashcangimmick/gifts).



> **general warning:** wow uh, please heed the tags? make sure that this is the trash for you!
> 
> happy sunday; live deliciously, etc. etc.

It’s a piece of shit house, really.

Billy doesn’t know why he picks it. Doesn’t even know why he’s out in the middle of the woods on a Wednesday evening, but he is. And he does.

It’s just a little cabin in the woods. Someone’s old fishing cottage, or something. Rundown. Decrepit. Billy would have assumed it was abandoned, if not for the porch light flickering in between dead leaves, catching his attention as he wandered through the trees.

The woods in Hawkins are creepy as fuck, honestly. Half dead and rotting, even in the summers. It’s the fall, now, which makes it worse. Still, Billy likes wandering in the woods. Catches himself doing it all the time, whenever Neil kicks him out for the night. He doesn’t always have a reason to kick Billy out, never actually needs one. Billy learned a long time ago that there are no consequences if you don’t get caught, if everyone keeps their traps shut. Sure, Billy _could_ tattle -- but he _also_ learned a long time ago that the consequences for _Billy_ talking are way worse than the potential for anything else.

It’s cold tonight. Billy’s not dressed for it. He doesn’t have a proper winter coat, just a denim jacket. It’s shit for the brutal Hawkins winters. Even all the beer he drank earlier isn’t helping him stay warm.

Like a moth, he’s drawn toward the light. He stands in front of the cabin without even fully recognizing how he got there.

He shivers.

It’s late at night. There are no cars anywhere nearby.

Inside, the cabin is dark. The only light is the light on the porch. Just one bulb, doing its best to light up the darkness of the woods.

Billy shouldn’t --

But it’s cold.

He’s drunk.

And no one’s home.

He does a slow circuit of the house. Checking for other vehicles, for more lights. The leaves and twigs crunch underneath his boots. He shuffles in the leaves, ungainly with the weight of alcohol in his limbs.

Nothing.

The place is empty.

Maybe has been empty for a while.

He wonders just how well stocked the place is. If it’s warm. If he could grab a coat. A thick pair of socks.

He wonders, distantly, if the owner keeps a stack of cash under their mattress just like Neil does. Or maybe under a floorboard. Or in a sock at the back of a drawer. Even just a few twenties for harder times. A safety net.

No one’s home. No one would know that it was Billy.

No one would know, period.

The lock isn’t that hard to jimmy open. Takes maybe a couple minutes. Billy’s honestly shocked no one’s broken in here before him. But this is Hawkins, and this place _is_ pretty far out into the middle of nowhere.

The cabin is dead quiet when Billy closes the door behind him. Silence, muffled. His heartbeat is deafening in his ears.

He shouldn’t fumble for a lightswitch, but it’s dark and he doesn’t have a flashlight with him. Outside, he at least had the light of the moon. Inside, all he has is the light from the porch, filtering in through the front windows; it’s not enough.

He’s almost blinded when he finds the switch and flicks the lights on. Takes a second to blink into the brightness of the room. The cozy, cramped interior is now lit. There’s wood walls. Bookcases. A beaten-up couch with mismatched pillows. It’s small. Crammed full of stuff. It’s not even _that_ warm inside. Whoever lives here clearly isn’t exactly well off.

Billy almost feels bad for thinking about stealing shit.

But.

Billy’s worse off, really. When it comes down to it.

At least this person has a _house_. A warm enough place to come home to.

Billy was wandering around in the woods at night, chilled to the bone, with not even a penny to his name. He couldn’t even go down to Edith’s shitty 24-hour truck-stop diner for warm coffee even if he _wanted_ to. Well. Unless he wanted to linger around the back where the trucks park. Maybe then, he’d be able to afford a coffee _and_ a burger. Maybe even a pack of smokes.

But that’s a long walk. In the opposite direction.

And Billy’s already here.

Billy doesn’t wander the house too much. It’s small. It’s not hard to find the master bedroom. Looks like there’s only two bedrooms anyway. The smaller ones clearly a kid’s, but it’s summer. They’re probably on vacation. Or the kid’s at a sleepover, or at camp. The options are endless, but all that’s _really_ important is that its ass-o-clock and no one’s home. Which means Billy has at least a few minutes to find something warm -- and then look for anything valuable he can cart away with him. Preferably cash, but there’s a pawn shop in town -- they might take jewelry. Even if it’s clearly stolen. It’s not like Billy Hargrove doesn’t have a _rep_.

The master bedroom isn’t much bigger than the other bedroom, but the bed’s bigger. Billy runs his fingertips over the old quilt. It’s definitely missing a woman's touch. Single father, maybe. There’s a lot of plaid.

There’s nothing under the mattress.

Billy huffs. Shrugs off his jean jacket and throws on a flannel he finds draped over a chair. It’s a little big on him, but it’s the real thing, warm as hell. It smells like sweat, like cigarettes. He rolls up the cuffs so he can keep digging around, feeling a little bit like a kid wearing his father’s clothes.

There’s nothing in the closet. No boxes to stash shit away in. No jewelry hidden away. If there ever was a woman in the picture, she’s long gone by now.

Billy checks the drawers, next.

Digs around underneath the socks, the jockeys.

He finds the stash in the back of the drawer with the undershirts. It’s not much, but it’s something. He grips the bills and pulls them out to get a good look at them. All twenties, held together with a money clip that looks old. It’s got initials on it, like people did back in the day. Some family heirloom. He takes the clip off, throws it into the drawer as a shitty apology, and shoves the bills into his pocket.

Billy hears a click from behind him.

It’s unmistakable.

A gun.

His stomach drops. He hadn’t heard anyone come in. But he’d been rummaging. Focused.

And he’s still a little drunk, a little stupid. A little too out of it to have been paying total attention.

“Well I’ll be damned,” a familiar voice drawls.

“It’s not what it looks like,” Billy says, as his spins real slow and careful, eyes landing on none other than the chief of fucking _police_ , Jim Hopper. Billy’s had enough run-ins with him to be real familiar with that disappointed voice. With that fatherly tone. The towering, angry figure.

“So you’re _not_ trying to steal from me, kid?”

Billy shoves the cash a little deeper into his pocket. His heart is racing. His vision swims. He sways.

“No, Sir.”

Maybe. Maybe the chief didn’t _see_. There's little point in fessing up to it, anyway. Never admit to anything. Let _them_ tell you what you did wrong.

“Are you intoxicated, Hargrove?”

“No, Sir.”

Chief Hopper laughs. It's a mean sound. He takes a step closer to Billy. He still had the gun pointed at him. Billy's heart pounds. He wobbles on his feet.

“You wanna try that again, son?”

Billy swallows. He can practically taste the cheap beer on his own tongue.

“Yes, Sir, I am.” The words are rough coming out of his throat, catching like barbed wire on his tongue. It's a trap, and he knows it, but there's a gun. There's a tall, angry man. Billy doesn't shake, because he's not a pussy, but his hands clench before they start trembling.

“I don't need to tell you that's illegal, do I?” Hopper says.

Billy shakes his head.

The chief raises his eyebrows. Like maybe Billy didn’t answer right.

“No, Sir, you don't.”

Hopper smiles, just a little, at the correction.

“I could arrest you. For home invasion, robbery, _and_ drinking underage,” he says. “That's quite the lineup, Hargrove.”

Billy’s immediate fear tries to strangle him, heart climbing high into his throat. Stealing his oxygen away.

“Please, don’t.”

Billy knows that Hopper has seen the way Neil has laid into Billy when he's been brought in on previous charges. Has seen the way Billy can't quite stand his ground, sometimes. This would be bad. Way worse than public intoxication or reckless driving.

“Don't really see how I have any other choice.” Hopper sounds tired of it, like it's a chore, dealing with Billy all the time. Which, maybe it _is_ \-- because Billy does make his life harder, adding to his paperwork and legwork and shit, but _damn,_ Billy's the one who's gotta be in his own head every day.

“Please, I'll do anything,” Billy says, fast, before he can think better of it. The alcohol doesn't help, loosening his tongue to all sorts of bad ideas.

Hopper’s eyebrows go up. “You wanna try that again, kid?” Like maybe he didn't hear Billy right.

Billy only has one choice here. This either works, or he gets arrested anyway.

Lesser of two evils.

“I'll do _anything_ , Sir.” Billy makes his voice go a little rough, a little suggestive. He knows how to look real sweet when he wants to. Can make his eyes go all big and innocent, so he does that, too. “Please?”

“You want me to add solicitation onto your rap sheet, too?” Hopper asks.

“Please, look --” Billy says, creeping closer, even though the chief has a _gun_ aimed at him. “I mean it, I'll do anything; I'll blow you, I'll let you fuck me, I'll do whatever you want me to. Just don't bring me in.”

“Jesus. You're drunk, kid.”

“Does that matter?”

Hopper laughs. His eyes are still on Billy. Billy's eyes are on the gun. Mostly. They dart to Hopper’s face, his big arms, and then to his crotch. And then, eventually, back to that shiny gun held with such a firm, steady grip.

“It matters a little,” Hopper says, slowly.

“I won't tell anyone,” Billy says. He's quick. “No one would believe me, anyway.”

Hopper hums.

“You're right, they wouldn't.”

Billy's not sure if that means he’s made his mind up or not, but Hopper takes another step closer, and then another, until he's standing right in front of Billy, so close that Billy can feel the heat of him. He towers over Billy, looking down. He smells like smoke. Like sweat. Like a really, really bad decision.

Billy's knees shake a little. His vision is a little blurry. He tries to focus on the buttons of Hopper’s shirt. On his mustache.

“Empty your pockets,” Hopper says. He gestures with the gun. It makes Billy go warm, anxious. Makes his entire body bead with sweat.

“I told you, I wasn't stealing shit.”

Maybe Billy can make it out of here with some loot, still, even if he doesn't get to keep his dignity.

“Uh huh,” Hopper says.

The barrel of the gun is cold as it runs down Billy's jaw like the trace of unfriendly fingers. He shivers.

“Empty ‘em, kid.”

Billy scrambles to comply, if only because his heart is inching up and into his throat, choking him real slow.

He comes out with a fistful of cash. Hopper takes it from him with a _tsk_ and a frown. Disappointed.

“Sorry,” Billy says, on instinct.

Hopper laughs. “Yeah, you don't sound real sorry. But you're more than welcome to try harder than that.”

Billy swallows. He _does_ know to apologize better than that. It's a real good thing.

He drops to his knees.

He fumbles for the buckle at Hopper’s crotch with clumsy hands. Before he realizes it, he's on his ass. Pushed off-balance and backwards with just an easy shove from Hopper’s boot.

Billy’s confused.

Even from down here, Hopper looks enthused. There's no hiding the evidence in his pants, the thick bulge waiting for Billy's mouth. So -- _why?_

“Not so fast, son.”

“But--”

“Quiet. I'm not stupid, kid. I wanna make sure you know what you're doing, first. That you know how to be _nice_.”

Hopper holsters his fun and then grabs Billy's jaw and hauls him back up onto his knees. Then, he presses down on Billy's lips with two of his fingers, a little rough.

“You better not use those pretty little teeth of yours.”

“No, sir,” Billy says. “I know what I'm doing.”

Hopper laughs. “Course you do.”

Then he's pushing two of his thick fingers into Billy's mouth. Pressing down on his tongue.

Beside the initial shock, the rush of wanting to pull back against the invasion, but knowing better, Billy just goes for it.

His skin tastes like cigarettes, like dirt. A little bit like sugar, too, like he snagged a stale donut before he headed home for the night, the hints of the sticky, sweet residue still clinging. His fingertips are calloused and rough against the softness of Billy's tongue. It's so different than the head of a dick, but Billy pretends, anyway. To show that he can, that he knows what he’s doing. That his mouth is worth more than an arrest.

He sucks off Hopper’s fingers like they're the best dick he's ever had in his mouth, like they're fucking delicious. It's not hard -- they kind of _are._ Or the experience is, anyway. Billy can't lie and pretend he's not at least a little into it, someone pushing thick fingers into his mouth, drawing them along his tongue until spit is dripping down his chin, until he's choking when they press a little too far back against his molars.

Hopper’s fingers fill his mouth until he's panting, out of breath. Until the drool is so thick that it's dripping down onto his shirt from his chin.

“Fuck, that's good.” Hopper’s voice is rough. Low.

Billy sits back on his heels while Hop pulls free and wipes his thick fingers on his pants. Billy's eyes linger on the dark spot that appears in the wake of the movement. He licks his lips.

“More?” Billy asks, ready to prove how good his lips feel around a cock.

“What do you say, baby?”

Billy looks up through his eyelashes, which he _knows_ makes him look innocent, makes him look _vulnerable._ He doesn't know if this is the right angle, doesn't know if this is the kind of shit that could get him slapped -- but he sucks on his lip and considers it, anyway. Doesn't help that he wants to, too, wobbling on his knees with the hard ground kissing bruises onto his skin.

Billy swallows. He's hot all over. He takes the chance: “Please, daddy?”

“ _Shit_ ,” Hopper breathes out. His eyes are dark. Billy can hear him breathing from all the way up there.

It's not a _no_.

“You need that mouth of yours filled up, don't you?” Hopper asks. He thumbs over Billy's lip, smears the spit that's gathered there. He doesn't even give Billy a chance to dart his tongue out again before he's pulling back, touching at his belt buckle.

Billy's mouth waters. He nods.

“ _Daddy_ ,” he pleads.

He _needs_ it, he feels like. Haunting and desperate, like he doesn't even care why he's doing this anymore. He needs this more than he needs not to get in trouble for breaking and entering, for stealing from the chief of police.

Hopper hums.

“But you haven't been that good, have you? Doesn't seem like you've learned your lesson, yet.”

Billy's heart drops.

His gut goes sour, cold.

He looks up at Hopper, who's just smirking down at Billy.

“Maybe you can show me just how good you can be, huh, baby? How good and how _careful_?”

Billy doesn't get it. He’s _shown_ how good he is, hasn’t he?

He doesn't get it until he does. Until he sees Hopper's hand move from his belt buckle to the holster on his hip. Until his fingers curl around that gun, until the cold barrel of it is caressing Billy's jaw once more.

“Can you be careful for me, kid?” Hopper asks. “Can you show me how good you can be?”

“Yes,” Billy breathes out, quiet.

“Yes, _what?”_ Hop prompts.

Heat coils in Billy's gut like a snake ready to strike.

“Yes, daddy.”

When Billy opens his mouth and lets his tongue loll out like a dog’s, Hopper presses the barrel of the gun down on it, letting Billy get used to the coldness, the taste, the hard and unyielding press of it. His heart pounds loudly in his ears, the beat nearly deafening to the quiet stillness of the room.

The danger is heady, overwhelming. Just this side of thrilling.

Billy's so hard in his jeans that it hurts.

He closes his lips around the gun and tastes metal. Oil. Gunpowder.

It fills his mouth, his senses.

Hopper doesn’t give him too much time to adjust, just slides the barrel in, all easy. Fucking Billy’s mouth with it now that he’s given the chance. Billy lets it happen, making a show of it when he can, when the thrusts of the gun slow enough that he can tongue at it. The metal warms up to his tongue, to the heat of his mouth.

Billy gags on it, when it presses a little too far, too fast.

“Shh, easy,” Hopper says, getting a hand in Billy’s hair. He doesn’t pull Billy back, though. Just keeps him there, swallowing, as the gun presses back against his throat. “Easy, baby,” Hopper says, as he feeds Billy just a little bit more.

It’s harder to suck off a gun than a cock, but Billy makes do.

Billy’s eyes are watering by the time Hopper’s pulling the gun back and wiping it off on his pants.

This time, when Billy fumbles at the buckle of his belt with clumsy hands, Hopper doesn’t protest. Just lets Billy undo his belt, then his zip. He even helps out by feeding his fat cock out from his briefs for Billy’s waiting lips.

“You’ve been so good,” Hopper tells him. “Go ahead.”

It’s so good when Billy finally gets his mouth around it. It’s _right_ , the way it fills up his mouth, the way it presses down against his tongue. The way the smell and the taste flood his senses, getting him thinking of nothing else.

Billy eases himself forward, until the head is bumping up against the roof of his mouth, teasing the back of his throat -- until his nose is nestling up against the coarse bristle of pubes. He pulls back, does it again, sucking Hopper’s cock down in one messy slurp.

This is _easy,_ he thinks.

But he's starting to get distracted. Mind wandering to matters a little more pressing. He takes a breath and swallows, trying to distract himself from his own body’s needs by working the cock down into his throat.

Billy shifts. It doesn't help.

He squirms. He had a _lot_ to drink, earlier. Now that he’s sobering up, it's becoming harder and harder to ignore the insistent press of his bladder.

Hopper grabs him by the hair. Pulls him back.

“Getting distracted?” he asks.

Yeah, okay, _maybe_ Billy was getting a little sloppy with it, a little messy. Squirming too much while his lips were still around Hopper’s dick.

“I gotta piss,” Billy finally says.

His ears feel warm with the admission. Here he is, trying to do something _hot_ in exchange for Hopper helping him out, and Billy’s already knocking that train right off the rails because he’s gotta _pee_. What a fucking childish move; a rookie mistake, especially for someone who’s been drinking and giving head for long enough, at this point.

Hopper just looks down at him with a frown, like, “Yeah, and?”

“Lemme piss and then I can keep going.” He leans back onto his heels, and licks the spit away from his lips. It tastes like salt, like sweat. It feels like he's floating, he’s so full up.

There's a hand in his hair, pushing it out of his face. Suddenly real gentle. “What, you can't hold it?” It’s a little mean. A little condescending, too. Coupled with the gentleness, it’s a lot. Enough to get Billy shivering, just a bit.

Billy frowns. “I mean I _can_ ,” he says. He’s always been good with a challenge, but --

“Then do,” Hopper says. “That's not too hard for you to do, is it?” There’s that condensation again.

Billy shakes his head, a quick and jerky movement. Of course it's not _too hard_.

It's just that he really fucking has to go. He had a lot to drink.

But he can wait a little bit longer. Right?

He swallows Hopper’s cock down again. He pulls out all the stops, the ones that get guys off real fast. He even reaches up and rolls Hopper’s balls between his fingers. He doesn’t normally do that. It usually feels too hands-on for a stranger.

Unfortunately, with that hand in Billy’s hair, Hopper starts slowing him down, starts easing him back. Making Billy go real slow. Making him take his _time_ with it.

Billy doesn’t _have_ time, though. The press of his full bladder is painful, insistent.

“You having some problems focusing, baby?” he asks, when he pulls Billy back, again.

Billy shakes his head. He shifts. Squirms. The more he thinks about it, the worse it gets.

He feels like he’s gonna _piss_ himself, he’s gotta go so bad.

So, Billy tries a different angle.

“Please, daddy?” he says, looking up at Hopper with his most innocent baby-blues. He even _pouts_. It’s disgusting. “Please lemme go.”

“No self control,” Hopper says with a _tsk_. Like he’s disappointed.

The shame that Hopper’s tone pulls into Billy’s gut is short lived, though, because Hopper’s pulling back and helping Billy to his feet. Everything twists brutally into the sweet promise of _relief_.

After tucking his still-hard cock away, and doing up his belt again, the chief ushers Billy out of the bedroom and down the hall. To presumably where his bathroom is. His hand is warm against the back of Billy’s neck. Billy lets Hopper guide him, pliant, and resists the urge to cup himself through his jeans. He’s hard, yeah, but he’s gotta go so fucking _bad_. The press of his bladder is painful, unignorable now.

“Here you go, kid,” Hopper says.

Billy breathes out a sigh of relief at the sight of the tiny bathroom.

But before he can even rush inside, Hopper’s pushing the door to the room closed and pressing Billy up against it, spine firm against the wood.

A pathetic whine slips out of Billy’s mouth.

He’d been so _close_.

The doorknob is right there next to his hand, but there’s no way Billy could pull it open. Not with the weight of Hopper pressing him against it. Still, he grips onto it, maybe just for something to hold onto. He jiggles it. Nothing budges, of course.

Hopper’s leg slots between Billy’s thighs. Presses up and against his balls, against his dick. Putting pressure against his bladder, too.

Billy gasps. Then, he _groans_.

It _hurts_.

But shit, it feels so _good_ , too. The way that Hopper is rocking his thigh up against Billy’s junk. Torturing him. Teasing him.

Billy pants, open-mouthed and wet. Hopper towers over him, trapping him against the wood of the door. The door rattles in its frame. All of Billy’s bones feel like they’re rattling, too.

“Please,” Billy says. “Please, I gotta go so _bad_.” He feels reduced -- to begging, to whining, words getting caught up in his throat. Like a petulant child.

“Aw, can’t hold it?” Hopper asks. His voice is so gruff and raspy, it sends a shiver cascading down Billy’s spine. It makes his dick twitch in his jeans.

Billy shakes his head. He knows his cheeks are red, knows his eyes are, too.

He’s frustrated. Ashamed. Desperate.

“You going to piss yourself?” Hopper asks. His voice is hot and smells like stale cigarettes, his mustache tickles the shell of Billy’s ear. “I thought you were supposed to be being _good_ for me?”

Billy shakes his head again. His hair falls into his face. No, he’s not gonna piss himself. He can’t. He’s _good_.

He rolls his hips, rocks them against the hard, hot press of Hopper’s thigh. Tries to distract himself with pleasure. Tries to distract Hopper with a moan that’s a little too loud, but is truer than Billy’d admit to. Rutting up against Hopper doesn’t make the pressure any less insistent -- but it does make Billy harder. It does make it all feel a little _better._

“There you go,” Hopper says. His voice is so rough, so low. He sounds so pleased. There’s a thrill, in that.

He’s practically riding Hopper’s thigh at this point.

Just when Billy thinks he might have distracted Hopper for long enough, maybe proven that he _is_ good, Hopper slides a hand in between the two of them and presses against Billy’s bladder. Heat and pain shoot through him. His whole body tenses up. His fingers clutch, desperate and pleading, at the starched and scratchy fabric of Hopper’s shirt.

A whimper, brutal and loud, catches in Billy’s throat.

“That bad, baby?” Hopper coos. He kneads in against Billy’s bladder.

Billy gasps. His hips jerk. He squirms against the door. Tries to get away. Tries to rut his dick up against Hopper’s thigh again, too. It _hurts_. It feels so fucking _good_.

“Then go,” Hopper says. “No one’s stopping you.”

Billy whines.

Hopper can’t be suggesting what Billy thinks he’s suggesting.

Except his fingers are kneading in against Billy again, against the full swell of his bladder.

The bathroom is so _close._ It’s right behind Billy’s back. And Hopper’s suggesting -- no, Hopper _wants --_

“We both know you’re going to make a mess of yourself,” Hopper says. He’s pressing, _pressing_. “So, just _do_ it. Let go.”

“I _can’t_ ,” Billy says. His voice is wet, raw. It breaks. It takes him a second to realize he’s crying, that there are tears stinging his eyes and running down his cheeks.

“Do it,” Hopper says. Patient, but stern. “Let go. Do it for me. You want to be good, don’t you?”

Billy nods, desperate and fast. He’s panting, now. Gasping. He can’t stop squirming, can’t decide if he’s trying to get away or get _closer_.

“Then piss yourself. Be a good boy for daddy.”

Billy wants to say he _can’t_. Wants to cry it out. He wants to, wants to, wants --

“Be a good boy,” Hopper says, right in his ear.

It’s a rush of pleasure when he feels himself first let go. When he feels the wet warmth start to spread outward from his crotch. He tries to stop it, tries to cut himself off, but --

“There you go, baby, that’s it.” Hopper’s fingers are kneading in still, encouraging Billy’s body to keep going.

Billy’s moaning, loud and open-mouthed. Wet and desperate. His piss is hot, saturating the fabric of his jeans in a second. He can feel it flooding them, soaking down through to the thin material covering Hopper’s thigh.

“So good for me, baby,” Hopper tells him.

Billy buries his face against Hopper’s shirt. He shakes and cries his way through it, the stream lessening as the moments pass, until his bladder is empty. Until Billy’s hips are jerking against Hopper’s thigh of their own accord.

He’s so wet. Soaked down to the very core. But he’s so hard, too. He’s so goddamn _close_. He shouldn’t be, wet and ashamed, but he _is_.

He feels dirty, disgusting, depraved. He needs it. He needs it so _badly_.

“Daddy,” Billy begs.

“Such a good boy,” Hopper tells him.

He grinds his thigh against Billy’s dick, a little hard, a little mean, until Billy’s shuddering apart, making even more of a mess in his pants as he comes. He shakes his way through it, world going white and fuzzy around the edges. It’s the hardest Billy’s come in years. It’s the hardest he’s come, ever, maybe.

Hopper takes a step back. Gives Billy a little space to breathe.

Billy sinks down to the ground. Unable to hold himself up without Hopper’s help. His legs are shaky, his knees weak. He’s a disaster. Wet and gross and soaked through to the bone. Sitting a puddle he made from pissing his pants.

“Shit,” Hopper breathes out. He’s looking down at Billy like this mess is the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

Hopper gets his dick out. Thick fingers wrapping around it as Billy looks up at him, still panting. Still sniffling. Hopper jerks himself of quick and fast.

It doesn’t take long before he’s coming with a grunt. Painting Billy’s face with warm, milky streaks of come. Making even more of a mess of him. Even more of a disaster.

Billy closes his eyes. He feels warm, floaty. A little dizzy, but in a nice way. When he opens his eyes, Hopper is crouched in front of him, looking mostly put together. His pants are still wet from Billy’s piss, though. A darker color than they should be.

“You doing okay, kid?” he asks.

He looks softer, now. Less of an authority figure, laced-up tight.

Billy nods. He licks his lips. There’s a ribbon of come, there. It’s salty, sour on his tongue. Still a little warm.

“You were so good,” Hopper says. He pushes his meaty hand through Billy’s hair. The touch is shockingly gentle. “So good for me.”

Billy lets out a shaky breath. It feels so good, being told he’s good.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, huh?”

Hopper helps him to his feet. Moves him enough so that he can usher Billy into the bathroom. He strips Billy out of his clothes and gets him into the shower. The water is warm. Billy floats through it, letting Hopper wash him down, a soft-washcloth cleaning the remainder of the spunk from his face. The bitter smell of urine washes down the drain, replaced by the familiar scent of Irish Spring.

Billy leans against the shower wall. The cool tile feels good against his hot skin.

“Can’t believe you pocketed my rainy day fund,” Hop says.

“Can’t believe you made me _piss_ myself,” Billy bites back.

That wasn’t exactly in their little _plan_.

“Not my fault you drank too much.”

Billy shouldn’t have been drinking at all. But he had, anyway. He’s always had a hard time telling himself _no_.

“Also not my fault you couldn’t hold it,” Hop says, teasing. Billy shivers a little, an echo of that rush ticking at the base of his skull.

“I don’t wanna clean it up,” Billy says, petulant and tired. Thinking of the mess on the ground and how much he’d rather crawl into Hopper’s warm bed, underneath the moth-bitten quilt that’s warmer than it looks.

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” Hop tells him. “I’ve got it.”

He presses his lips to Billy’s temple. Crowds in close under the gentle stream of the water.

“You did so good, baby,” he says. “You enjoy yourself?”

Billy nods. He remembers the flood of pleasure as he came. The rush as he wet himself while riding Hop’s leg. Sure, there’s shame -- but right now all he feels is relief. And fatigue.

And maybe he feels a little thankful, too. For this, and for the possibility of _more_.

Billy licks his lips and leans up for a watery kiss. It tastes like validation, like the sweet testament of praise.

“Thank you, daddy,” he says, against Hopper’s lips.

“Let’s get you to bed,” Hopper says.

His smile, when Billy kisses it, is just as delicious as the praise. Hard-earned, and definitely worth all the effort.

**Author's Note:**

> as always, any comments or kudos would make my day. 
> 
> i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/brawlite) and [tumblr](http://brawlite.tumblr.com), if you are so inclined.


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